


Warm, Beating and Frantic

by river_soul



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Grey Bucky, Kidnapping, Memory Loss, PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sam is done with everyone and their dumbass reactions, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28820814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_soul/pseuds/river_soul
Summary: Backpacking across Europe after college you’re kidnapped by a stranger who thinks only he can protect you from an unseen enemy known as Hydra. After months on the run, you finally escape. Years later you’re just starting to get your life back together when you accept a job at Stark Tower. The last thing you expect to see is your kidnapper, a part of the Avengers and going by the name Bucky Barnes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 77
Kudos: 171





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by an amazing conversation I had with @dark-side-of-the-marvelous-moon who wanted a story exploring how Bucky, after having regained stability and clarity, would react to seeing someone he hurt or traumatized during the period of time between CAWS and CACW when he was fresh out of Hydra’s control and confused/violent/mentally unstable. In this fic, Bucky believed the reader was someone Hydra sent him to kill previously and kidnaps her to keep her safe.

You see James on a Tuesday, nearly three years after the night you escaped him in Croatia. 

He looks different than you remember. His hair is shorter, cropped close to his head and there’s a healthy glow to his tanned skin as he sits at one of the coffee tables scattered around Stark lobby. He’s laughing at something the blonde man beside him said, head thrown back in amusement as his eyes sparkle with warmth and happiness. It’s a far cry from the blue eyes that haunt your dreams, fearful and angry.

The sight of him is enough to make memories rise unbidden, flashes of his worried face and the way he tried to soothe away your tears. His promises to keep you safe as he curled his warm body around yours each night. You remember his screams too, how he'd wake confused and violent from his nightmares, and the way his metal hand around your wrist would make your bones ache from his tight grip. 

When he turns to say something to his companion you hear his voice for the first time, that low gravelly timbre you still hear in your nightmares. The travel mug in your hand slips through nerveless fingers and his head snaps around as the ceramic cup shatters on the marble floor. Your eyes meet as hot coffee sloshes over your new heels. You’d bought the shoes special for your first week on the job, spending money you didn’t have to make an impression but all that is forgotten as bile rises in your throat, choking you. 

Beside you, your coworker's concerned voice is drowned out by the rushing in your ears as sheer panic takes over. Every muscle in your body tenses, the feel of phantom hands on your skin. James is half out of his chair before you turn to run.

You stumble in your heels before kicking them off, almost falling into a man trying to enter the building. You push past him frantically to get to the busy street. The concrete is cold beneath your bare feet as you dodge and weave through the crowded sideway, shoving people out of the way in your terror. You run until the cold morning air burns in your lungs, and your feet are battered and bloody, and then you run more. You don’t stop until you reach a small alley, the smell of rotting garbage filling your nose as you crouch behind a dumpster.

You can’t stop your body from shaking but you try to calm your trembling breaths, remembering just how sensitive his hearing could be. _Please_ , you think, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. _Let this be a dream._ Some horrible nightmare you’ll wake up from, safe and alone in your bed. Even as you pray and hope you know this is very real. He’s found you again and you know when he comes it won’t even be James. The soldier is the one that comes when you run and he frightened you more than James ever could. 

The sound of gravel crunching beneath booted feet makes your whole body tense up as a shadow falls across your hiding spot. You know without looking up it’s him. His bulky frame blots out any sunlight, throwing your huddled figure into shadow. It’s all you can do to press yourself against the brick wall as a fearful moan leaks out between your clenched teeth. 

“Shh, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you,” James promises, an echo of the very first words he said when you woke up to the sight of him above your bed in the hostel all those years ago. Unlike then you don’t resist him, letting the large warm hand he curls around your arm turn your body to his. Fighting him is useless, he’s too strong and capable. 

“I’m not him anymore. I promise. Look at me sweetheart,” James says.

At the sound of the familiar endearment a fresh wave of nausea washes over you but your eyes snap open. He’s crouched before you, head level with your own. When your eyes meet the crystal clear blue of his you suck in a breath. There’s undeniably a change there, a clarity you’d never seen before but you don’t trust it. You remember how he could change so quickly, kind and sweet one moment and violent and angry next. 

“D-dont be mad James,” you beg, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I ran again,” you tell him with wide fearful eyes. His anger was always quick to fade in light of your tears and apologies. 

Instead of trying to comfort you he looks away, shame washing over his features as he clenches his jaw. You shrink back, afraid and confused by his unexpected behavior. 

“I go by Bucky now,” he tells you with a soft sigh. “If you come with me I can explain,” he promises, glancing behind him. 

It’s then you realize you’re not alone. 

The blonde man he was sitting with at the table is standing at the mouth of the alleyway watching you with a concerned frown. His eyes are warm and kind, his handsome face familiar. Your eyes dart back to James, but you say nothing. It never mattered what you wanted before.

James seems to take your silence as permission, slipping a hand under your knees and bracing his other on your back as he pulls you toward him and stands up. You don’t resist, keeping your body loose and accepting. 

“I can’t let you walk on those feet,” James tells you, worry etched into his features. You follow his gaze to your feet, dirtied and bloodied. It’s then you realize the hand that curls around your knee isn’t the silver you except but something black laced with gold accents. 

“We’re gonna take you back to the tower and get you looked at, okay? Then I’ll explain everything,” James tells you. 

When he doesn’t move immediately you realize he’s waiting for you to speak. 

“Okay, James. Whatever you think is best.”

He frowns at your words, the warm hand at your back flexing against the material of your dress. 

He’s upset. 

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, but your response only seems to distress him more so you fall quiet after that. 

There’s a car waiting at the end of the alley, something black and sleek. It’s a far cry from the old, beatup cars James used to steal when he’d taken you on the run with him. The blonde man ducks into the car and James follows. He keeps you on his lap, the hand on your back moving in soothing circles as the car pulls into midtown traffic. 

“It’s going to be ok,” James murmurs.

You don’t realize you’re crying until he sweeps away the wetness that’s gathered along the swell of your cheek with his metal hand. You remember he was always gentle when you were upset. 

You look away from him when the shame and guilt you see in his eyes become too much and curl your hands into fists as you feel that old fear and anxiety return to you again.


	2. Chapter 2

The car ride back to the tower is silent even though Bucky knows Steve is brimming with questions. Bucky sees how his gaze lingers on the metal hand that’s curled protectively around your knee and the thumb he strokes in a continuous circular motion meant to soothe you. Every muscle in your body is tense, your pulse fast and thready. The urge to put you beneath him, to press his body impossibly close to yours until he can make you stop crying is overwhelming but he resists. Instead, he lets the feel of you in his lap, the sound of your quiet breathing ease the strange impulse as they drive.

A nurse and a doctor meet them at the elevator in the garage, but Bucky can’t bring himself to put you down until they reach one of the smaller exam rooms. He settles you on the bed, hand automatically going to smooth back your hair from your sweaty forehead. He doesn’t miss how you avoid his gaze or your soft sigh of relief when he finally moves away. 

Hovering outside the door to your room Bucky tries to calm his own anxiety and the Soldier’s desire to be with you. Seeing you, holding you in his arms, feels like some kind of strange and twisted version of the dream that’s haunted him over the last three years. He looked for you after Steve found him, combing through endless missing person reports for young women in Europe. In his darker moments, he’d been terrified that he’d actually killed you and buried the memory too deep to find again.

But you're here now, alive and so very real that the sight of you lifts a weight from his chest he didn’t know he carried. 

“What’s going on Buck?” 

Steve’s voice is quiet but insistent, his hand on Bucky’s shoulder drawing him away from your room.

“She’s from before,” Bucky says simply, turning to keep your room in his sightline.

“I got that pretty quick. She was terrified of you, but she called you James.”

Bucky closes his eyes as a fresh wave of shame and regret washes over him. He’s shared almost everything with Steve over the years, but he’s never spoken about you. Not even to his therapist. He’d done horrible things without question for Hydra, but you...you were someone he hurt after, of his own free will. 

“It was right after everything happened in D.C. I was in Europe, laying low. I was…a mess, confused. All my old memories from the wipes were trying to reintegrate. I saw her in the street and I took her,” he admits.

“Took her?” Steve questions, his tone carefully neutral.

“Kidnapped her. I thought she was someone else.”

“Who did you think she was?” Steve asks. 

“The daughter of a Hydra scientist. Her father was selling secrets to the British. They sent me to kill the whole family,” he admits, looking away from Steve. He can’t bear to see the sympathy and concern in his friend's eyes. Not over this.

“When I saw her walking through the streets, I thought maybe she got away somehow...that maybe I didn’t actually kill her. I wanted to protect her from them.”

Steve says nothing for a moment, drawing a hand down his face as he blows out a harsh breath.

“You were confused and lost,” Steve starts, brows furrowed in a way that Bucky knows means he’s already working to rationalize what happened. "It wasn't your fault. We can help her understand that.”

“Steve,” Bucky starts but Sam’s arrival cuts off whatever he was going to say.

“What’s up, man? I got your 911 text,” Sam says, looking curiously between Bucky and Steve. “You good tin man?” he questions with a frown when he takes in Bucky’s agitated state. 

“We need your help, Sam. Let’s talk over here,” Steve says, pulling him away.

As Steve and Sam speak quietly, Bucky slips away to find a better position that lets him look into the exam room without you seeing him. He watches the way you frown and grimace as the nurse wraps your foot, pain etched across your features. Your eyes dart anxiously between her and the door. That same strange longing from the car rises up inside him again, a need to comfort and protect you that has him taking a step forward before he even realizes it. He knows he could ease away the tension in your shoulders and smooth out your wrinkled brow. He’s practiced at calming you, keeping you quiet and still.

No. That’s not right. 

Bucky steps back, his throat constricting painfully as he pushes down that drive from the Soldier. 

The last thing you need is him.

“Hey,” Steve says quietly, coming to stand beside him. “Sam is going to explain everything to her. I figured a neutral party would be best since she saw me with you.” 

Bucky nods wordlessly, watching Sam disappear into the room and shut the door behind him, cutting off Bucky’s view of you and making the words Sam speaks and your answering ones indistinguishable to even his hearing. It’s a tortuous twenty minutes, not being able to see or hear you but the rational part of Bucky’s brain knows you’re safe with Sam. He’d never hurt you.

When Sam finally emerges, Bucky’s eyes flicker to you, and the tears he can see on your face. Your eyes are red and puffy, your expression fearful. His metal hand curls into a fist, a wave of anger threading through his body. 

“What happened?” Steve asks. 

Bucky doesn’t miss the tightness in Sam’s features, the way he purses his lips at Steve’s question. 

“I explained everything to her. She’s asked to go home.”

“Does she understand that it wasn’t him?” Steve asks, brows furrowed in worry. “Bucky’s immunity only covers his actions under Hydra. Not something like this.”

“I know you’re concerned about Bucky, but that girl in there is a real, breathing person with feelings,” Sam says, his voice taking on a hard edge. “She’s traumatized. No amount of explaining that Bucky was brainwashed and not in his right mind is going to fix that. If she wants to go home, we need to let her.”

Steve clenches his jaw and looks away, clearly unhappy with Sam’s answer. 

“It doesn’t make me feel great to say this, but I don’t think she’d say anything to anyone. She’s too afraid," Sam admits.

Bucky feels his gut churn, a wounded sound escaping between the tight press of his lips at Sam’s words. 

“What can I do?” Bucky asks Sam. “What can I do to help her?”

“Nothing. She needs space,” Sam says, his expression softening.

Bucky nods, a horrible pressure building in his chest as he looks over Sam's shoulder at your huddled figure. The Soldier shifts inside him and the palms of his hands itch. 

"I - I can't be here," Bucky says suddenly, stepping back from his friends. Every step he takes away from your room feels like a lance through his chest but he forces himself to keep moving. 

\--

It isn’t hard to get your personnel file and medical records, FRIDAY helps him with whatever he can’t get to. Bucky knows what he’s doing is wrong, but the need to know more about you is almost a compulsion. He can't rest until he knows. He reads your name, testing the sound of it on his lips. You’re older than he expects, your youthful features had him underestimating your age. He reads about your parents and schooling, everything in your life normal and boring until he’d taken you. 

The after is sparse, your social media dormant these last three years. He finds no job history from your first year back but there’s enough information in your medical records to paint a vivid picture. A list of medications he can’t pronounce and enough therapy that your parents had to remortgage their house to pay for it. 

Bucky forces himself to keep reading, each new revelation twisting the knife in further.

\--

Two days pass and you don’t return to work. Bucky checks the badge logs and FRIDAY confirms you’ve emailed in sick for the rest of the week. He’s suppressed the impulse to go to your apartment and check on you himself. You’re terrified of him and he knows Sam is right - you need space. But the gulf between what he knows to be right and what he feels is wide. Sleep is elusive and his nightmares seem to hover anytime he tries to lay down. 

A glance at the clock on the gym wall tells him it’s after midnight but he doesn’t slow the relentless pace of the treadmill. Bucky runs until his clothes are soaked through with sweat, muscles burning with overexertion and his mind finally clears. When Steve finds him hours later, the sun peeking over the horizon, he’s staring out the window at the city below.

“Tell me you haven’t been here all night pal,” Steve says.

“I haven’t been here all night,” Bucky parrots back.

He doesn’t turn around to face Steve, already knowing his friend has his hands on his hips and that pinched look on his face. 

“You gotta talk to me. It’s been two days Bucky. Anyone can clearly see you’re not doing well.” 

Bucky feels a wave of irritation pass through him as he turns around to face Steve. He knows his friend means well but he hates the pity he sees there.

"If Stark sent her away, got her a job somewhere else would that help?" Steve asks.

"No," Bucky admits, the idea of losing you and not having you close by to check in on sends a ripple of panicked anxiety through him that he knows isn't right. "The Soldier..." Bucky trails off, eyes darting away from the worry he sees on his friend's face. "The Soldier thinks about her. She was...she was our last mission."

It wasn’t just the Soldier though, Bucky had spent years dreaming about you. A mix of memories and half-imagined desires and horror his brain came up with.

"Maybe I should go back to Shuri. See if she can help," Bucky suggests, but even as he speaks the words he knows they’re hollow. There is nothing she can do about this. The Soldier is too deeply linked to his psyche to ever be removed.

"He's a part of you Buck," Steve says softly.

“I know,” Bucky tells him, pacing the length of the window as a sudden wave of irritation and anger well up inside him. “I fucking know that, but she deserves better. She deserves to live a life without me haunting her.”

“At the risk of sounding like Sam, you can’t take back the past or undo what you’ve done to her. You can only move forward,” Steve offers. 

“I don't know what to do, Steve.”

"What do you need to move forward?" Steve asks.

"Her," Bucky says, the answer falling out of his mouth before he even has a chance to think about it.

"Then, she stays," Steve agrees with a nod. "And you show her you're not someone she needs to be afraid of."

Bucky looks away from Steve, uncertainty swirling in his gut as he remembers the horror etched into your features when you saw him in the lobby. What could he possibly do to erase that?


	3. Chapter 3

You keep your gaze on the door as the nurse works carefully to remove pieces of glass and rubble from the soft skin of your feet. You're waiting for James to return. Even at his most lucid he never left you alone for long, and the few times he did always seemed to increase his frantic need to have you close by afterward. Waiting for him, you remember, was always the worst part. 

“This may sting a bit,” the nurse warns and you look down to watch her slather a thick paste on your feet before wrapping them tightly.

“I don’t feel anything,” you tell her, brows drawn together. “Is that bad?”

“That’ll be the shock, honey,” she says, her gloved hand patting your shin. “You’ll be feeling this tenfold later. Don’t worry, after we patch you up we’ll send you home with some pain medication. We always take good care of the Captain’s friends.”

“The Captain?” You ask. 

The nurse gives you a funny look. “Captain America, he’s one of the men who brought you in.”

When your eyes dart to the open door you find the blonde man, Captain America, watching you with a frown. His eyes are blue like James’, though brilliant and vibrant where James' are muted and grey. You’re not sure what you expect to find in his gaze but it certainly isn’t wariness. You look away after a moment, overwhelmed.

Tears well in your eyes and you brush them away quickly, your gaze jumping to the open door. 

You sight a figure in the doorway and clench your jaw to keep from making any noise, but it’s not James. It’s another man with warm brown eyes and a soft smile. 

“All done with the patient, Nurse Ratched?” 

“That wasn’t funny the first time, Samuel and it’s not funny now,” the nurse says, affection clear in her voice despite her harsh words. “I just need to get her some pain pills.”

“That’s great, gives us a moment to chat,” Sam says, shooting you another friendly smile that you don’t return. 

You watch him follow the nurse to the door, shutting it behind her. You sit up straighter when he turns to face you, eyes darting to the door. James didn't like closed doors, he didn't like anything that kept him from seeing you. The man, Sam as he introduces himself, seems to pick up on your unease.

“Would you like me to open the door?”

You shake your head, pushing down the panic crawling up your throat as you try to clear the tension from your face. It’d taken you years to unlearn the instinct to keep your emotions buried where they couldn’t be used against you but it’s terrifyingly easy to slip into that space again. To become an empty vessel and wipe away all the fear and anxiety you see Sam searching for on your face.

“I understand you’ve had a pretty stressful morning,” Sam starts, still smiling, as he takes a seat on the stool. He leans forward, elbows on his knees as he meets your gaze. Everything about his body language is loose and relaxed, nonthreatening. 

“I expect you’re dealing with a lot of different emotions and feelings. It must have been a shock to see Bucky after all this time.” You say nothing. He continues to talk, his voice low and steady. Calming. He reminds you of the first therapist your parents brought you to. “I want you to know you’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you.”

“Can I go home?” You blurt out, tensing at how loud your voice sounds in the room. 

“Absolutely. We can get you a cab, drive you, whatever you’d like. We just need to talk first, okay?” He asks.

“Okay.”

\--

When Sam finishes his story you sit in silence, overwhelmed with everything he’s told you. 

“Do you have any questions?” Sam asks.

You have a million, but none you want to verbalize so you shake your head instead.

“I’d like to go home now,” you say, your voice tentative even to your own ears. “Can I go?”

“Of course,” Sam says, giving you the same soft smile as before. 

You can tell he’s concerned with your response, more worried than unhappy with you. You’re not sure what he expected from you so you kept yourself carefully blank. It was better than giving him the wrong emotion; so you keep the pleasant blandness on your face until his back is turned. Then your expression falls as the panic that you’ve suppressed since James found you surges in your chest. Tears form in your eyes and you swipe at them hastily with the back of your hand. When you look up through the open doorway you see Sam speaking with the Captain. 

The nurse returning to the room cuts off your view of them. You’re only half-listening to her as she explains the pain pills to take and the cream you’ll need to reapply. Her hands are gentle as she eases a pair of thick socks on your feet before helping you into the wheelchair. The Captain is waiting beside Sam in the hall, your purse and heels in his hands. You look behind them searching for James but the hallway is empty. His absence sends a spike of anxiety through your chest. Not seeing him is almost worse somehow. 

“We spoke with your boss to explain your absence. We told her you’re helping us with a special project for the rest of the week. I figured you might want some time to- ah, regroup,” the Captain says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Thank you, Captain,” you tell him, your tone emotionless.

“Please, it’s Steve,” he says with a smile as you accept your things from him. 

“Alright, Cap,” Sam says, clapping Steve on his shoulder as he steps forward. 

You don’t miss the way he seems to place himself between the two of you. The unexpected gesture makes you blink up at him. 

“Let’s let the lady be on her way,” Sam says. “Take care of yourself,” he adds, voice pitched just for you to hear. 

You give him a hesitant, strained smile in return. It's all you can manage.

\--

When the taxi drops you off in front of your apartment, you can’t help but glance behind you, searching the people passing by you on the sideway. It feels like before, when you first got back. You searched for him everywhere, in the face of any man near his height and age. 

You have to force yourself to move into your building. 

The walk up to your third-floor apartment is tortuous, the shock of the day wearing off to leave you feeling everything. Pain rushes through your feet with each step and by the time you make it to your door you’re nearly sobbing. You lock the door behind you, sliding the chain in place but you know it offers you no real protection. You’ve seen James break through a stone wall to reach you before, his metal arm shattering concrete and brick easily. You’re not sure anything would stop him if he were to come for you again.

For one wild moment you think about running, taking the bag hidden at the back of your closet and trying to disappear. You hover at the threshold of your bedroom, frozen with uncertainty. You remember the first time you tried to run, when the Soldier caught you in the small Slovenian fishing village. You’d begged for help but no one spoke English. 

His eyes had been so cold, his anger palpable when he threatened you.  _ You run again and I'll chain you to the bed. _

What would he do to you now? He had been so different in the alleyway, his eyes kind and warm when you expected the Soldier. You want to believe the story Sam told you, he was so earnest when he spoke to you but the overwhelming fear burning through your veins is stronger. These new changes in James unsettle you, he’s less predictable now. 

You need to leave, run, but when you take a step into your room it feels like you’re walking over glass all over again. It’s pure agony and the pain drops you to your knees. You're not even sure you can make it to your bed, let alone down the stairs. A hysterical sob rushes past your lips as a wave of hot tears follows. It feels like your drowning, your lungs busting as you try to draw in a breath. Somewhere in the back of your mind you know you're having a panic attack, working yourself up to hyperventilating.

_ Focus. _

_ Name three things you can see. _

The voice of your first therapist springs up unexpectedly in your head as you force yourself to look up and focus. The first thing you see is your desk, then a tiny penguin figurine before your eyes finally land on the photo of your parents.You stare at their faces, happy and carefree as your cries start to subside and you’re left taking in shaky breaths. You look behind you to the front door. The hallway outside is quiet. 

You think about calling your parents, to hear their voice one last time but you can’t seem to make yourself reach for the phone. Your hands feel numb. Somewhere deep inside you know  it’s hopeless. There’s nothing you can do. You’re trapped. You feel strangely hollowed out, like someone’s scooped out your insides. A wave of exhaustion sweeps over you, your body sliding to the floor. You curl into a ball, arms wrapped around your middle as silent tears fall. 

There’s nothing to do but wait for James.

\--

You wake with a start, a car horn blaring outside your window. Sunlight streams in through your open blinds and you blink to clear the sleep from your eyes. Your whole body aches when you sit up. Why are you on the floor? Pain lances through your feet as you stand, memories from yesterday rushing back in all at once.

James.

You stumble to your feet, looking to the front door. It’s closed, the chain still in place. You hobble over to each of your windows to check the locks, finding each of them firmly shut. 

You stand in the middle of your living room, unsure of what to do until your stomach grumbles and twists painfully. When was the last time you ate? Yesterday? Your foot throbs with the first step towards the kitchen. Your purse is on the floor where you dropped it last night, the yellow pill bottle visible. You skin itches, a thin film of sweat and grime coating your body. You need to eat and take a shower. It feels jarringly normal to think something so mundane when you know James is out there now. Thinking about him again makes you feel that urge to give into the feeling of nothingness and sink to the floor. 

“No,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Focus.”

You need food and a pain pill. Then a shower. You repeat the three tasks in your mind over and over again like a mantra, shutting out the anxiety you feel hovering at the edge of your mind. You shuffle to the kitchen, picking up your medication when you pass the couch. You make yourself drink a glass of milk and eat a protein bar before taking two of the pills. Then you head for the shower, stripping off your clothes and carefully undoing the bandages. 

Once you’re done, feet wrapped and wearing clean clothes, you sit on the couch, the anxiety and fear rushing back in. You’re not sure how long you sit there, staring at the patch of chipped paint on the wall, unable to move. Time seems to pass in strange fits and lurches. When you come back to yourself it’s nighttime, your apartment bathed in darkness.

James doesn’t come that night. Or the next day.

\--

When you wake up on Friday morning, you check the door and windows again, finding them undisturbed. The relief is soft and fragile and you hold tightly to it. For the first time in three days, it doesn’t feel like you’re crushed under an overwhelming sense of fear and anxiety. You start to consider that Sam might have been telling you the truth about James. That he’d changed. No longer the man from your nightmares. It hardly seems real. 

An unexpected giggle bubbles up from your throat. You move to the kitchen on light feet despite the lingering pain and pull down the ingredients to make pancakes. You’re halfway through ladling out the thick batter when the knock on your door comes.

You freeze and the knock comes again, insistent and firm. Fear sweeps through your chest, fast and hot, displacing that small sense of peace you’ve allowed yourself to have. The roar of blood rushing in your ears is so loud you almost miss the voice, low and masculine, that speaks your name.

The ladle in your hand slips through nerveless fingers, bouncing against the hardwood floor.

He's finally come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger! I will be trying to update this story every two weeks moving forward.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I agonized over this chapter and struggled to make sure I got the reader's response right. I have my own trauma and response to it, but I know everyone is very different.

You stand frozen in your kitchen, overwhelmed by an all-encompassing terror that makes your whole body go white-hot. A small, distressed sound resonates from somewhere in your throat. You clench your jaw to keep quiet.

Then the knock comes again and you flinch, your body jerking into the counter with a soft thump. 

“I just want to talk,” the man says, but it’s not James. The voice is all wrong, too smooth and low. It’s not the gravelly tone that lives in your nightmares. 

You release the breath burning in your chest, the exhale loud in the quiet.

“It’s uh, Steve.” You tense when you hear him move closer to the door. “Captain Rogers.”

It may not be James but you’re not sure the man on the other side of the door is much better. You saw how he looked at James. The sympathy and love in his eyes. 

You say nothing.

“I know you’re in there, sweetheart. I can hear you.”

You flinch at the endearment. 

"Don't call me that. Just, please… please leave," you beg, your voice wavy and thin to your own ears.

"Just let me in and we can talk," he urges. "I have some files for you to look at. They’ll help you understand what happened to Bucky. To see that he’s safe now. "

You hesitate. "D-do I have to?" You ask him.

"No, but I would like it if you did," he says with a sigh. 

"I -I want you to go," you say, clearing your throat. "Now."

"Alright," he concedes. You hear something heavy fall on the floor. “I’ll leave the files outside for you. My number is there in case you have questions. If you want to talk.”

You keep quiet, straining to hear his footsteps as they fade. After a moment of silence, you shuffle to the window. You see Steve down in the street, his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a blue baseball cap but his figure is unmistakable. He’s just as large as James. 

When he looks up unexpectedly at your window, you stumble back to the couch. You press your hand to your mouth, body trembling as you try and regulate your breathing. You stay on the couch for over an hour, your body cycling through a deluge of emotions, each worse than the next. You think about the bag in your closet again, about running. The wounds on your feet are better than they were on Tuesday but you’re still too slow. He’d still find you. 

It’s past noon before you’re able to make yourself get up and open the front door to grab the heavy manilla folder Steve dropped on your welcome mat. A brightly colored sticky note is attached to the front. Steve’s number. You crumple it in your hand, tossing it in the trash can but leave the thick folder on the kitchen counter.

\--

You ignore the file for most of the day but you feel it like a physical presence at the back of your mind. You’re half tempted to throw it in the trash with the note but another part of you wants to know what’s in it. What made it important enough for Steve to bring it to you. You hesitate at the kitchen counter, fingers hovering over the package. 

“You got away. You survived,” you tell yourself. 

You can look at a stupid folder. 

Before you can change your mind, you flip open the cover. The first page is a photo of James behind frosted glass, his head thrown back and mouth open in agony. It’s an expression you recognize, one you saw countless times in the middle of the night when his nightmares would come. The angry muttering in Russian was always your first warning before the violence. Trapped in his embrace, it was all you could do to turn into him and draw a soothing hand down his back or over his face and hope you got James when he woke. 

You shake your head, clearing the memory before it can pull you under.

Turning to the next page you start to read, every horrifying detail of James’ life with Hydra laid out in black and white. You feel a swell of sympathy and revulsion as each new abuse is revealed but there’s a disconnect. A missing link between what you feel for Bucky, the boy with the sweet sepia toned smile and James, the man who hurt you.They are the same but you cannot reconcile them. It’s hard to think of the monster from your dreams as a victim, to see him at the mercy of another when you spent months under his thumb.

You keep reading, startled to find your own name written in pen in the margins. It’s the same handwriting from the note. Next to it a date is circled. The day James escaped. Three weeks before he took you. Your hand trembles as the memory of the night he took you rises up inside. Bile burns in your throat and you nearly trip over your stool in your haste to get away. You know why Steve circled the date. What he wants you to understand. 

The urge to move, to run, flickers inside and you pace between the locked windows and your front door. The hallway is empty when you look through the peephole and it calms you a little. You’re still alone. When you feel brave enough you return to your seat at the kitchen counter and start reading again. You learn about James’ deprogramming in Wakanda, the endless visits to psychologists and even his trial. By the time you finish everything, the sun is slipping below the horizon, bathing your apartment in gentle hues of yellow and orange. 

When you close the file shifting it away from you, a thin flash drive slips out. Your feet are stiff and sore from sitting too long as you stand to reach for your laptop. You plug in the drive, and a folder pops up, containing several videos. A mixture of morbid curiosity and a need to know more has you clicking on the first one.

It’s James. The footage is old, grainy. He sits in a large metal chair, a device clamped around his head. The grim expression on his face belies the fear you see in his eyes. He tenses when a man offscreen speaks to him in Russian. His reply, an angry snarl that makes your body go cold with fear, is cut off by the blue arc of electricity. His body convulses, and he screams, a horrible, wounded sound. It’s worse than you remember from his nightmares.

You close the video, silencing his scream. You have to wait until your heart slows in your chest again before looking at the other files. The last one is dated six months ago, marked confidential. It’s James again, sitting in a mostly empty courtroom. He’s dressed in a sharp blue suit, his hair is short like he wears it now. You can read the discomfort on his face and in the way he shifts and keeps adjusting his tie.

“Sergeant Barnes, do you believe you should be granted immunity from the numerous crimes you committed while under Hydra’s control?” The judge asks.

“No.”

At the judge's expression James swallows, looking down at his lap. 

“I wasn’t given a choice but that doesn't change the fact that I still did it. That it was my hands, my body. I can never undo that.”

He falls silent again.

“Do you regret the lives you took?” The judge asks. 

James looks up suddenly and for one wild moment it feels like he’s looking right at you through the screen. His grey eyes are so full of pain and suffering that it dislodges something hot and tight in your chest.

“I see their faces every day, all the men and women Hydra made me kill. There is not a word strong enough for the regret I feel,” he says.

Silence hangs in the courtroom before the judge speaks, clearing his throat. 

"I understand your feelings on this are complicated, but your lawyers and the Avengers believe you can do more good with them than in jail and I am inclined to agree with them," the judge says. "That, along with the recommendation of a panel of psychologists that agree you are in no danger of falling under Hydra’s control again, is why the US Government is granting the request for immunity.”

In the corner of the screen, you see Steve’s smiling face and watch the way he hugs a redheaded woman tightly. His expression of joy is only eclipsed by the anguish written all over James’ face.

\--

Sleep is elusive that night and when it does come, you dream of James. You see him in the chair from the video, hear his screams and his pleas for you before the image washes away and you’re standing in a desolate barn. James is on his knees before you, his face pressed into your stomach as his arms hold you tightly to him. His sobs are hushed and desperate and he doesn’t quiet until you stroke his hair like he used to make you do before. You wake hours later, cradling a pillow to your chest, your eyes wet with unshed tears. 

The strange dream stays with you the rest of the day; while you let the mundane tasks of laundry and cleaning consume your anxious energy. You’re not sure how to feel or what to do. Your laptop sits open, a draft email with your notice of resignation on the screen. You wrote it last night but you can’t make yourself send it. The thought of going to work on Monday and seeing James fills you with an awful anxiety that makes your skin prickle, but the idea of quitting, of throwing away the progress you clawed your way to, feels just as daunting.

This job was meant to be your first real step in reclaiming your life. A new city where you weren’t surrounded by people who knew your deepest trauma and where you could have the chance to find who you were again. Now all you want to do is run home, to bury every awful feeling seeing James has dredged up.

But you can’t, not even if you know your parents would welcome you back gladly. They were depending on you, on this job. Even though they’d never tell you outright, you’ve seen the statements from the bank about the house and their overdrawn retirement accounts. It was why you'd taken the job and found the cheapest, smallest apartment you could. You had to pay them back. 

More than that, you don’t want to give up on yourself and all the progress that’s brought you here. It'd taken years to throw off the constant paranoia and fear that kept you from truly living. Could you really go back to your childhood bedroom and that muted, half life? For a fear that might not even be real? He’d been cleared by experts, declared fit to be an Avenger. 

It'd been almost four days and he hadn't come for you.

_But he could still come,_ that small voice in your brain reasons. He could be waiting, biding his time for the right moment to take you away. _He’ll always find you. He won’t let you go_ , the voice whispers. _You'll never escape him._

You feel your throat tighten, another anxiety attack on the horizon as you struggle for a breath. Your eyes flicker around your apartment, trying to center on an object to ground yourself. You focus on the thick file on the kitchen counter and the evidence that says you’re safe. But the gulf between what you know and what you feel is vast.

\--

It’s nearly 7 pm when your phone rings. You jump at the unexpected sound. When you look at the caller ID you see your father’s smiling face. Saturday evenings was your weekly call with your parents, their not-so-subtle attempt to check in on you. With everything going on you nearly forgot. 

“Hey pumpkin,” your father greets, his voice just as cheery as always.

“Hey Dad,” you say, trying and failing to make your voice sound upbeat.

"Honey, is everything ok?" your mom asks immediately, quick to pick up on your subdued tone. 

Her voice is so gentle and soft you almost break down again. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat. You want so badly to feel her arms around you then, to smell that awful perfume she's worn ever since you were a teenager. It would feel so safe in the shoal of her embrace.

"I'm just tired mom," you tell her. "Work's crazy."

“You don’t sound tired, honey. Did you,” your mom starts and you can hear a half hushed conversation between her and your father before she speaks again. “Did you have an episode?”

“No,” you lie, forcing yourself to smile so it carries through in your tone. “I just got a big project at work and I am nervous. You know how I used to get before a big test.”

“If you’re sure,” your mother says, sounding unconvinced. 

“I am. Now catch me up on all the gossip with Mr. Norris and his cat,” you ask, feeling relieved when your father launches into the latest drama with their next door neighbor.

You hate lying to your parents but you’re not ready to talk about this with them. You’re not sure you’ll ever be and you know they’d want you to come home. 

\---

On Sunday you’re still struggling with what to do. You write and rewrite the email to your boss before finally giving up to go make breakfast. You're in the middle of buttering some toast when your phone chimes, a reminder popping up on the screen.

_*Beta test Singapore servers for Monday’s meeting.*_

For a moment you stare at it in confusion before you remember it's a note you left for yourself earlier in the week. Before James and everything that came after. It feels like a lifetime ago. The girl who left that note had been so eager to get started on the first real project. You remember your excitement was so much you were willing to spend Sunday working on it.

Could you be that girl again, the one who felt so exhilarated to work with the brightest minds at Stark Industries and take back her life? You’re not entirely sure if you can be but oh, do you want to be her. To have the desire for this life you’re building be more powerful than the fear you feel. 

The more you think about it the more you realize you have to be. You can’t go back to the girl who hid in her childhood bedroom for years. 

You won’t.


	5. Chapter 5

When you don't return to work on Friday Bucky struggles to keep his focus. His mind wanders to you almost constantly. It gets bad enough on Saturday morning that he rides the subway halfway to your apartment before he's able to wrestle control over himself and turn around. The need to see you, that all-encompassing compulsion is strong enough to frighten him. He knows it’s not right or normal so he schedules a last-minute session with his therapist that night - the first one in nearly a year. 

He’s anxious and agitated when she shows up but like always her gentle demeanor encourages him to share the story of you and your time together. If she’s surprised by what he reveals she doesn’t show it. Her facial expression is the same neutral mask she always wears when he details the horrors of his time with Hydra. The frenzied movement of the pen on the paper of her journal is the only sign of her concern. She talks him through his feelings and the exercises that help when he feels anxious or out of control. There’s no judgement in her tone but she doesn’t hesitate to ask the hard questions he’s been avoiding.

_Do you want to hurt her? Do you think about kidnapping her again? Do you worry you’ll lose control? Do you want a relationship with her?_

Bucky answers all her questions truthfully but his _yes_ to the last question gets stuck in his throat and he has to force it past his lips. Shame burns in his gut because he knows what he really wants from you, what he thought about in the strange moments of clarity during your time together but never acted on. You’ve haunted his dreams for years but they weren’t always fearful, awful things.

Sometimes he dreamt of finding you again and touching you like he used to. Vivid memories of how your body felt against his as he held and comforted you at night. The smell of your hair and soft skin, your fingers in his hair. Your soft sighs. The other dreams were hazy and confusing, half-imagined desires he’s never examined during the light of day. The feel of his lips on yours, soft kisses, and whispered promises. Your body under his. Those he woke from in a cold sweat, shame, guilt, and desire twisting him up.

He doesn’t tell her about those dreams. 

\--

Bucky doesn’t feel any better after his therapist leaves. He's jumpy and anxious. He expected telling her everything and admitting to his need for you would help; but it doesn’t. Not even several hours in the gym can calm his racing mind. It’s not until he’s lacing up his boots, ready to go to your apartment, that he thinks about the security footage. It isn’t hard for him to get access to the system and organize the videos in chronological order, starting with your arrival two weeks ago. Bucky saves the important clips to watch again later when the Soldier stirs and the desire to hold you to him grows. 

He likes the footage from your first day best, the way your nervous energy makes your face light up with a kaleidoscope of emotions. Your smile is so wide and big it makes the corners of his own lips pull up reflexively. He likes the little dimples that appear at the corner of your mouth when you laugh. You were always fearful or terrifyingly blank in his memories. Never happy. 

He spends Sunday learning every one of your expressions and little tics. Like the way you bite your lip when you’re stuck on a particularly puzzling piece of code and how you massage your thumb into the heel of your hand when you’re nervous or unsure. He likes how you scrunch your nose when you’re too distracted to notice your coffee has gone cold and you absentmindedly take a sip. 

It’s wrong and not even close to healthy, but Bucky keeps watching the tapes, wishing desperately for audio just to be able to hear your voice. He only remembers your pleas, the way your voice would get thin and high with fear. He wants to hear the laugh he sees in the footage and to know the way your voice sounds when you're pleased and embarrassed by the praise from your boss.

He notes the schedule you keep. How you always arrive at work with your coffee but get green tea from the cafe in the lobby after lunch. You don’t seem to talk much with your coworkers, preferring to keep to yourself but you’re always sweet and warm with them. The photos from your social media before show someone vibrant and young, surrounded by friends and family. Bucky knows he did this to you, that he’s the reason why you tense when people get too close or raise their voice. He replays the way you flinched at your boss's angry tone when he loses his temper in a meeting, how you hunch your shoulders and your lips go thin and flat. Easy, subtle signs but he misses nothing.

He always stops the video before it gets to the day you saw him. He doesn’t need to see the fear and terror on your face again. He has enough memories of that look to last a lifetime. 

\--

The alert pings on his phone while out on a jog with Sam and Steve Monday morning. 

_Badge swipe. 7:32 am._

His fingers itch to open the app which shows live video of you in the security cameras but he can’t, not with Sam so close. When his phone chirps again a moment later a still photo of your face appears on the screen. You look tired, dark circles under your eyes. The expression of barely suppressed fear on your face makes his breath hitch. 

“All your friends are here, who’s texting you?” Sam questions with a grin. “You got other friends we don’t know about?”

“No,” Bucky says quickly. “It’s, uh, a reminder to water my plants.” 

“When did you get plants?” Steve questions with a frown. 

“I don’t gotta tell you everything I do,” Bucky mutters, feeling a little exasperated at the amount of hovering Steve’s done the last few days. 

“Plants are great, man,” Sam says with a big enough smile that Bucky feels a flash of guilt for lying to his friend. “Good way to channel your overprotective urges.”

"Yeah, it's been real… therapeutic."

"Tell us the truth Barnes… you talk to them don’t you?” Sam questions.

“It’s ok,” Steve teases with a grin, “You can tell us, this is a safe space.”

“No judgment,” Sam adds.

“God, I hate you both,” Bucky grumbles without any real heat, his lips twitching up into a half smile that he’s quick to smother.

\--

It’s a little after 1pm when Bucky opens the live feed of you at your desk. You’ve been picking at the lunch you brought from home, pushing the food around with your fork instead of really eating. Every now and then you tense and your gaze keeps straying to the door. He knows you’re waiting for him. 

“I wouldn’t let Sam see that,” Steve says from behind him, startling Bucky badly enough to almost drop his phone. He’d been too focused on you to hear Steve’s approach. 

“I didn’t think she would come back,” Bucky admits softly.

“I think the folders I dropped off helped her understand she didn't have anything more to fear from you.”

“You went to her home?” Bucky asks, standing up fast enough that his chair topples over. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Bucky says, feeling a sudden wave of anger and anxiety. He knows you must have been terrified. You probably thought it was him. 

“Shouldn’t have done what?” 

At the sound of Sam’s voice Bucky and Steve turn quickly, surprised to see him standing in the doorway. 

“Uh,” Steve says. “Nothing.”

Sam narrows his eyes, his expression suspicious. When he folds his arms across his chest Steve fidgets.

“Steve went to her apartment,” Bucky says. 

“Bucky!” Steve groans, covering his face with his hand.

Bucky watches the way Sam clenches his jaw before blowing out a harsh breath.

“I don’t get paid enough for this shit," he mutters, rubbing his forehead. 

“I was trying to help,” Steve defends.

“Bravo, great job stalking the trauma victim to her home. I’m sure that wasn’t threatening to her at all. That you know where she lives and works now.”

“I didn’t think about it like that,” Steve admits, with a frown. 

“I have enough on my plate dealing with Bucky's obsessive attachment to the girl,” Sam says in exasperation. “I gotta babysit your ass too?” He asks Steve.

“And you,” Sam says, whirling around to face Bucky. “This creepy stalker shit stops now. Thought you were smart logging in under Cap's name to pull the security logs? I am onto you. I catch you watching her through the security cameras again and I’m having Stark shut off your access.”

“We don’t need to involve Tony,” Steve says.

Bucky winces when he sees the expression on Sam’s face and the way he tilts his head to the side in disbelief.

“Oh no, you don’t get an opinion here,” Sam warns Steve. “Bucky’s brain was put in a blender so I understand his actions, however misguided. What’s your excuse?”

“I was -” Steve starts, but Sam is quick to interrupt him with a raised hand. 

“If you say trying to help Bucky, I’m gonna ram that shield so far up your ass they’ll have to surgically remove it. You got that?”

“Loud and clear,” Steve says, his hands held up in a gesture of defeat.

"Now, I am going to go downstairs and get some coffee with Natasha and enjoy the rest of my afternoon,” Sam tells them both. “I don't want to hear a peep out of either of you that isn’t ‘I’m sorry Sam’ or ‘I got those croissants you love from the shop on 10th.’”

"The dulce de leche ones?" Bucky confirms.

"Yes and some chocolate ones for Nat. You know how she gets about pastries."

All three men share a moment of silence, thinking of how terrifying Natasha could be when it came to sweets.

“Thanks for selling me out there pal,” Steve says once Sam has gone. “I’m on your side here.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Bucky tells him angrily.

\--

As much as Bucky knows he should listen to Sam and stop watching you through the security footage, he finds he can’t. He just learns to be sneakier about it, utilizing all the awful things Hydra forced into his brain to move through the system undetected. For your first two weeks back he’s content to watch you through the cameras and follow you home. You live in a tiny one bedroom apartment in Hunts Point. Even back in his day, that part of the Bronx wasn’t a good place and it only seems to have gotten worse in the last 70 years. It’s full of rundown buildings and men who linger in the street after dark. Sometimes they whistle or yell at you and Bucky watches the way you hitch your shoulders up, head ducked down to avoid their gaze. 

It makes his fist clench and the Soldier think about dragging them into a quiet alley. He always walks closer behind on the nights you stay late, worried about being quick enough to intervene if you need him. He knows you carry pepper spray, he’s watched your fingers tighten around the black canister on the subway. Bucky doesn’t go into your building or your apartment, though. That's a line that he’s drawn for himself. Instead, he waits until he sees the light in your window, a sign you’ve made it safe. He never lingers, too worried about temptation. 

-

On the third week after your return, Bucky starts to feel that familiar compulsion again. His hands itch and he feels anxious and on edge. He’s so distracted by his need for you that he nearly breaks one of the trainees' hands when he pulls back too hard to escape a chokehold. Steve says nothing but his whole face gets that pinched, concerned look. 

That night Bucky formulates a plan. A way to see you in person that won’t traumatize you further or get Sam’s attention. It’s an old training tool Hydra used to desensitize their soldiers to certain triggers or stimuli. His therapist had called it exposure therapy. Whatever it is, Bucky knows just how effective it can be and he wants so badly to ease your fear. To be near you.

He starts small, showing up in crowded places where he knows you’ll be. Sometimes he takes Nat or Steve, other times one of the new trainees who are all eager to pick his brain or spend time with him. He always pretends not to see you and never acknowledges you. He pours over the security tapes later, cataloging each expression and emotion. 

Sometimes you don’t notice him, too distracted by coworkers or your sightline gets blocked by someone. When you do, your reaction is always the same. You freeze up for a moment, eyes wide and full of terror. Your lips part soundlessly, fingers curling into a fist. He can see the fight within you to flee before you look away and get your breathing under control. 

By the sixth week, Bucky knows his plan is working. When you see him in the lobby you freeze up on instinct, mouth going tight but then to his relief you breathe out and relax. Each time you see him your reaction is less severe than the last time. You still watch him with a sense of wariness but the outright fear has subsided. You’re getting used to seeing him, your body learning to not see him as a threat. 

Bucky knows then you’re ready for the next part of his plan. 

\--

His body feels like it does before a big mission or a fight. A strange sort of tense anticipation that floods him with anxiety and excitement. He glances down at his phone, watching the live security footage of you in the elevator. You're focused on the phone in your hand, texting what looks like your mother. Bucky’s timed it just right so you're not alone when the doors open, he knows you'll feel safer with others present.

When the elevator dings he doesn’t look up immediately, pretending to frown at his phone. He waits until he sees you glance up and still on the video feed. Only then does he let his head rise slowly. It isn't hard to let the surprise come over his face. Brows raised and vulnerable as his mouth opens just a fraction. Bucky doesn't hold back the shame or guilt he feels every time he sees you but he buries the longing in his expression, gaze dropping to the floor as he takes in a halted breath. He can hear your own sharp intake of air and see the way your hand trembles at your side. When he looks up again you swallow thickly as people push past the two of you to enter and exit the elevator.

The plan was to keep the interaction brief but seeing you now, close enough to touch, fills him with an expected surge of emotions and he can't move. The gaze you share is more intimate than he anticipated and he makes an abortive gesture with his hand, as if to reach out to you before he can stop himself. He blinks hard, looking away to clear his head. He needs to go, he’s lingered too long already. This time when your eyes meet he can’t conceal the pain and heartache he feels. The look in your eyes is unreadable, not fear but something entirely new. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky stutters, half surprised to realize he’s spoken the words aloud. He hadn’t intended to say anything, too afraid of how you might react. 

His heart is thundering in his ears as he all but runs for the stairwell, slipping past the throng of people in the lobby. He takes the steps two at a time and doesn't stop until he reaches his quarters. Closing the door behind him he slides down to the floor, hanging his head between his knees. He draws in short, desperate breaths. His hands are shaking and it takes several long moments for the panic to subside. 

For all his planning and maneuvering to make sure you were receptive to him, Bucky never spent any time thinking about how he might react. He only expected relief, like the first touch of water to dry lips but now he feels even more unmoored. Uncertain. He thinks about the good man he wants to be, the one you deserve, and who he was, the desperate, clawing thing that tried to swallow you whole. 

\--

Bucky keeps his distance over the next week and doesn’t try to see you in person again. It takes him another five days after that to work up to his next planned meeting. He brings Scott with him both as a buffer and because he’s guileless enough not to question a sudden invitation to lunch. Bucky actually likes Scott despite how loud and animated he is because there’s never any pressure to talk with him going a mile a minute. He also likes how easily the other man annoys Sam. 

All it takes to set the plan in motion is to mention that the Indian place is back and Scott drags him to the cafeteria. It’s crowded and loud, the exact type of place Bucky likes to avoid.

“Man, I am jonesing for that butter chicken. It’s like crack, you know? At least I am assuming because I’ve never done hard drugs before,” he’s quick to add, patting Bucky’s arm as if to reassure him. “Just the devils’ lettuce but that was before Cassie.”

Bucky makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat and Scott keeps talking as they take their place in line. He waits until the man in front of him moves, exposing the back of your head to his view before reacting with a grunt. It takes Scott a few moments to realize something is wrong.

"What's up man? They run out of the naan again?” he asks peering around Bucky to the front of the line. “Jesus, you look like you've seen a ghost. You ok?" Scott's voice is loud and has the desired effect, the people in line, including you, turn around.

"Oh my god, you're Ant Man!" the girl in front of them says, voice shrill, but Bucky can't tear his gaze away from you.

Scott’s animated greeting of the girl fades out, the sound of blood rushing through his ears is the only thing he hears as he holds his breath and waits for your reaction.

Your jaw tightens and nostrils flare as you stare at him but after a moment your face smoothes and you turn back slowly around without a word. The hand at your side clenches and unclenches. When you place your order your voice is an octave higher than normal but you remain with your two coworkers and wait for your food. Your gaze doesn’t return to him until you’re about to leave. 

You look nervous and uncertain, but that fear he's come to expect is absent.


End file.
